


“This was your father”

by zsomeone



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Dead People, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-07
Updated: 2009-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:21:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zsomeone/pseuds/zsomeone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young teenage Skwisgaar, and his mother.<br/>Skwisgaar seems to be the <i>least</i> comfortable with killing and death, although he does his best to ignore it.  Anyway, that’s my inspiration, and also the music.<br/>Warnings: Graphic imagery, if that disturbs you.  Yeah, I went and wrote another depressing one.</p><p>This was somewhat inspired by Pearl Jam- Alive</p>
            </blockquote>





	“This was your father”

He doesn’t know what wakes him, something unfamiliar.  
Daring to ease open his door, he cautiously peers out into the room. Mother is holding something, and crying. He has never seen her cry, not like this anyway, this looks... real.  
As he watches, she tosses something into the fireplace, a photo? It is quickly consumed.  
He dares to approach her, too curious now to resist.

Peering over her shoulder, he sees the photos in her hands. His mother, so young and beautiful, he’s so amazed he barely notices the man standing beside her.  
She senses him behind her, and looks up accusingly. With a quick motion, she thrusts the remaining photos into the fire, destroying them.  
“Why?” he asks, as she stares into the flames. 

She won’t answer. She shoos him back to his room, clearly wanting to be alone.  
He goes, lying on his bed and wondering, fully awake.  
He can’t play his guitar, she’ll hear it. She doesn’t like it when he plays in the middle of the night. He picks it up anyway, laying it on the bed beside him, the teddy he has never had.  
Someday this guitar will save him from this life.

Morning finds his mother sitting at the table drinking coffee. It’s possible that she has never slept. She looks up as he enters. He’s already quite tall, taller than she is. Her expression is strange, as if she’s seeing someone else in his place.  
He helps himself to some coffee, sitting opposite her. He wants to ask about the photos, but knows she won’t answer.

To his surprise, she speaks to him. “Get dressed, I want to show you something.”  
Intrigued, he finishes his coffee and quickly dresses. She never wants to do anything with him, what has brought this on?  
He meets her at the front door where she is waiting, and they go out together.  
Climbing into their, car and head into town. 

The building she stops at is unfamiliar to him. From where they are parked, he can’t read the sign. Still, he gets out and follows her.  
The building is daunting, large and cold. He hangs back a bit as she approaches the counter, talking to the man there. Then she waits nervously, and he is getting nervous by association.  
What is this place, why are they here?

A man approaches and speaks to her. She nods, and calls to him. Together again, they follow the man down several flights of stairs, it’s colder down here.  
They come to a door, he can read the sign on it. Morgue. Dead people. He’s not ready for this, whatever it is.  
She sees him start to freak out, and speaks to him sharply.  
Ashamed, he tries to pull himself together, and they enter the room.

It’s horrible, dark and cold. There are sheet-draped _things_ on many of the tables, and the whole room reeks of death.  
The man consults a chart, and leads them to one of the tables.  
She nods to him, and the sheet is pulled back.

He recoils in shock, the burned and mutilated face of the corpse staring up at him without eyes.  
Mother makes a small sound, covering her mouth. The man leaves the room, abandoning them in this fortress of death.  
“Mother, why?” He tries not to look, but is unable to look away.  
“This was your father.” She offers him nothing else.

He is confused, could this really be his father lying here, mutilated, cold, and dead? Why has she never mentioned him, in all these years?  
He stares into what’s left of the face, trying to look past the damage and find a resemblance, but he can’t. Holding his breath against the smell, he leans closer.

Suddenly a strong hand on the back of his neck forces his head down, into the dead face.  
“Kiss your father goodbye.”  
He struggles, but despite his height he’s still just a boy, and she presses him down.  
His face touches.  
She lets go, and he reels back, collapsing against the wall, shaking.

“Get up! You’re weak, just like he was.”  
Mother, why...? He tries to stand, but is shaking too hard. Dropping to all fours, he vomits from the fear and disgust.  
She grabs his arm, hauling him to his feet.  
He staggers after her as she drags him from the room.

Nothing is said on the ride home.  
Still sick, he stumbles to his room, curling up on the bed. One hand instinctively clutches his guitar.  
He tries to remember the photos, tries hard, but all he can see is that crisped and smashed shell of horror.  
His father, his father that he will never know.  
No, he can’t accept this, he has no father.

He’s never had a father.


End file.
